1970s Sitcom! (Patreon)

70s Sitcom: Just Smile!

By TG Kadee and Anonymous 2

Opening Credit: Grainy shots of a gritty, bygone New York City. Big, steel cars patched with bondo line the streets. Women in skirts and dresses scurry along sidewalks crowded with men in suits. We see drug stores and delis, record stores and fancy restaurants with names on their awnings.  Two young men with sharp, collegiate haircuts and polo shirts are seen pointing, gawking, taking in the town as the theme song plays:

Guys. Guys just moved to the city

Thinking that life was so pretty

But then they found

Themselves wearing gowns

And it’s heels

And skirts all day

And it’s hands

Just groping away

But somehow these two guys

Will learn to be women

Will learn to be women

9 to 5 they will learn

To be women—

Just smile!

Mike and Jason, holding street vendor hot dogs, turns to look at camera with shocked looks on their faces.

Exterior: Red Brick apartment building on shady, tree-lined street.  A shabbily dressed hobo sits on the steps, drinking from a brown paper bag.

“Are you sure this is the address?” Jason asks, looking up at the five story building.

“Says so right here,” Mike answers, brandishing a newspaper. “14 Changemont Avenue.”

“I just thought it would be—“

“Nicer?”

“Less gross?”

Laughter.

The Realtor comes strolling up, snapping his fingers. He now has a big, curly mop of hair, and he is wearing a leather vest with  fringe and earth tone bell bottoms. He flashes a peace sign and says, “What’s cooking?”

Mike and Jason look at each other. Shrug. “Dinner?”  Mike guesses.

“Far out,” The Realtor says. “You’re gonna dig what I have to show you.”

“Hey, buddy, no offense, but we don’t want to purchase any of your drugs,” Jason says.

“Yeah, take a hike,” Mike adds.  “We’re just waiting for our realtor to show us this apartment.”

“Cuz, I am The Realtor.”

“You?” Mike and Jason say in unison.

“Are you freaking out right now? Did I blow your mind?”

“No,” Jason says.

“Not at all,” Mike adds.

“Not even a little?”

“My mind remains unblown,” Jason says with a shrug.

“And I was trying too hard,” The Realtor says, forlorn.

Silence. Police siren in the distance. Then—

“Hey,” the hobo shouts. “My mind is blown!”

“Your mind has been blown every day since Woodstock,” Jason says.

Laughter.

The hobo stares, then begins to laugh. “What’s a Woodstock?”

“Let’s go look at that apartment,” The Realtor says. He climbs the stairs and holds the door. “After you.”

Cut to Apartment.  It is a typical, cramped NYC apartment with a couple small windows offering views of the apartment across the street. The apartment is furnished in classic 70s style: A box couch with a coffee table, a bean bag chair, end tables with shaded lamps. A bead curtain separates the living room from a small kitchen, and two doors suggest the bedrooms. There is a high fi stereo system on a teak sideboard and a small tube TV with rabbit ears.  There are cracks in the nicotine stained walls, and the wooden floor is scuffed and worn.

“I don’t know,” Jason says. “I was hoping for something a little more upscale.”

“And I was hoping to play catcher for the Yankees,” Mike says.

Laughter.

“This is the perfect starter apartment for a couple of young ladies full of moxie!” The Realtor says, backing towards the door.

“Young ladies?” Mike says.

“You did say you wanted to play catcher for the Yankees,” Jason drawls.

Laughter.

“Shut it,” Mike says.

“All this apartment needs is for a couple peppy girls full of spunk to give it a warm, feminine touch!” The Realtor is now standing in the hall, doorknob in hand.

“Full of spunk?” Mike says.

“If you end up playing catcher for the Yankees, you probably will be full of spunk,” Jason says.

“Hey!”

“Enjoy your new apartment, and remember to smile!” The Realtor slams the door.

“Did we just agree to take this dump?” Jason says, going over to the window and looking down at the street.

Mike, who’d been fiddling with the Hi FI, looks over and does a double take. He now sees the faint shadow of a woman floating behind Mike. She is wearing a dress and heels. “Okay. What’s going on here?”

“What?” Jason says, turning.  Just as he turns, the record player starts to pay:

I can wash out 44 pairs of socks and have 'em hangin out on the line

I can starch & iron 2 dozens shirts 'fore you can count from 1 to 9

Jason’s mouth falls open as he sees a shadowy female soap hovering in front of Mike.  Jason points at Mike. Mike points at Jason. “Ghost!” They both say in unison.

I can scoop up a great big dipper full of lard from the drippins can

Throw it in the skillet, go out & do my shopping, be back before it melts in the pan

'Cause I'm a woman! W-O-M-A-N, I'll say it again

“Mike, there is a ghostly chick floating right in front of you.”

“No, there’s a girl ghost in front of you.”

Laughter.

“Okay. Stop repeating everything I say.”

“You stop repeating me!”

“Okay. Let’s settle this.” Jason grabs Mike and steers him to the mirror hanging above the stereo.  They both shout in fright as they see the faint faces of young women shimmering in front of their own.  The faces are just barely visible, like the shadow of a shadow.  “Ghosts!” They both yell, and run to the front door of the apartment.  Mike grabs the handle and turns and pulls, but the door is stuck.

“Why aren’t you opening it?” Jason yells, pounding on the door.

“It doesn’t want to open!” Mike yells.

Laughter.

“The door doesn’t want to open?”

“No!”

“Doors open. It’s what they do!”

“Not this one!”

Laughter.

“Get out of the way. Let me try.”

“I can do it—“

“Move!”

“Fine.” Mike steps away.

Jason grabs the handle and looks back at Mike. “Sometimes these old doors get sticky. You just have to use finesse. Watch and learn.”

“Finesse away.”

Jason turns the handle, shakes it, pulls.  Nothing.

Laughter.

“Well?” Mike says.

“Just give me a minute.” Mike now taps on the door frame. Turns. Pulls. Nothing.

“Hahaha! Oh, yeah, you are really showing me.”

“It’s just gonna take a little elbow grease,” Jason says, now putting one foot against the door frame, grabbing the handle with both hands, groaning as he pulls with all his might.

Mike looks at the camera and smirks.

“It’s coming free!” Jason yells, as the doorknob pops off and he flies back across the room, hitting the couch, rolling over it and face planting on the living room floor.

Laughter.

Jason, still face down, holds the handle up. “That’s what I call progress.”

Laughter.

“That’s what I call a real knob!” Mike says, pointing at Jason.

More laughter.

Cut to Jason and Mike sitting on the couch, reaching out toward each other.

“I can just barely see her, but she doesn’t seem harmful,” Mike said.

“Same here.”

“Say, why do you keep waving your hand in front of my chest?”

“To see if I can feel your boobs.”

Chuckles.

“Hey!” Mike leans back, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Keep your hands off my boobs! I mean my ghost’s boobs! I mean- just-- you know.”

“Yeah. I know. Do you keep hearing people clapping and laughing?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to mention it. Thought maybe I was going crazy.”

“If you are, we both are.  Another thing, I am missing time.”

“Missing time?”

“Yeah. Like, one minute we were talking about the doorknob, and the next? We’re sitting on the couch trying to touch our ghosts. I don’t remember what happened in between.”

“Come on. We --um-- then-- no.  Hunh. I can’t remember, either. Do you think that weird hippie Realtor slipped us some LSD?”

“Could be, but I have the strangest feeling.”

“What?”

“I think we may be living in a sitcom.”

“Wow. Okay. Time for you to get your head shrunk, mister.”

“I’m not crazy. I’m serious.”

“Trapped in a sitcom?”

“The laughter. The fade outs and ins. The corny, central casting hobo on the steps. It’s all exactly like a tv show.”

“Well, what would that mean, then? Exactly? I mean, why does it even matter?”

“Maybe it lets us know the way out. In every episode of every sitcom, there is a problem. Something they have to solve or figure out.  Maybe we have to figure out something to escape the show.”

“You are losing it,” Mike says, picking up a pack of Virginia Slims from the coffee table, tapping one out. He holds it with his fingers in a V and starts looking around for a lighter.

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Since forever, and I only smoke Virginia Slims, because you’ve come a long way, baby!” Mike finds a lighter, takes a puff and tilts his head back, blowing the smoke in the air as he plants a hand on his hip.

“You see? You just did a product placement. This is a sitcom, but it’s worse than I thought.”

“How could it be worse?”

“Because you are being absorbed into the sitcom, which means I probably am, too. We better hurry and get out before we are completely absorbed.”  Mike gets up and goes to the door.

“Now what?”

“The door. It’s so obvious. The door represents the wall between reality and this sitcom world. Fix the door, escape the world. There’s only one problem.”

“Which is?”

“In a sitcom, the characters make all kinds of zany and impractical attempts to solve their dilemma, sometimes making things worse before they get better.”

“Well, let’s just not do that, then.”

“Excellent. Excellent. Yes, let’s not do that. We’ll just think of a plain, common sense solution. No crazy schemes.”

“Why not call the handyman?”

“Because I have a better idea.”

“I am going to regret asking this, but what is your better idea?”

“I crawl out on the ledge, go to the next apartment and get the neighbors to help.”

Mike looks at the camera. Shrugs. “And people say I’m the airhead.”

Laughter. Laughter.

“It’s going to be fine. Trust me. Nothing could possibly go wrong.”

“Oh, boy.”